


it's a lie (and we both know it)

by janigkale



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), captain america: civil war - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Hopeful Ending, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Reunion, just so tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-03 18:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14575449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janigkale/pseuds/janigkale
Summary: Tony Stark has crash landed in a kingdom with no king. Steve Rogers is tired of pretending there's possibility, after too many times without it.  A look after Infinity War.





	1. facts, always

The blue alien- Nebula- drags him into the ship, flicks a few control panels, and when he looks outside again, he sees the emptiness of space, swallowing them. He wishes it could swallow him, because he's too damn tired, and wants to go, sink and fly away in the uninviting void of space. He still feels the ashes of Peter between his fingers, and something hard catches in his throat as he thinks about that. _Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good._

_I don't want to go, please._

 It's forever recorded, like a broken radio, over and over. It's inscribed, and he can't even muster a single tear, because they all turned to ashes on Titan, intermixing with what used to be a sixteen years old boy with bright brown eyes and a heart too big for him. He almost imagines Peter’s warmth in his arms, and barely breathes.

 At some point he asks Nebula where they are going. She stays silent and unyielding until her voice tiptoes out. “Thanos,” she says and it's the truest thing that he's heard, even through he's begging it's a lie. He feels like laughing, even through it would come out more like a broken scream tangled with why god why. He sits there, mulling his thoughts, and after what feels like eternity, he says, “We should go to Earth.”

Even though he doesn't know about Earth. Even though he doesn't know if Bruce and Natasha and Pepper and Rhodey and Clint and Thor have melted away into nothingness. Even though  he doesn't know if he'll come back to _we’re sorry, but they're all freaking gone_. And it whistles hard in his chest, and the wind’s knocked out-

_Steve_.

 And the thought wrenches him, because he hasn't thought about him since he flipped open that phone and stared at the pixels that make up _Steve Rogers._

Tony prevents the question, but it comes anyway.

Is he alive?

She doesn't respond, and he insists again, voice sharpened. She turns to him, and her eyes are glassy, and Tony recognizes the pain, but can't let himself sympathize. “Thanos destroyed my sister; he deserves to die!” Her voice is a little girl’s shrouded with the thought of an adult, but he won't let himself care, _not now_ , so he shoots back. “ _He killed my kid."_

His kid.

Peter.

The fact strangles him that because he realizes that he never once said that to him, never acknowledged, never even gave it a passing thought. And he remembers hands clutching his shirt, leaving bruises in the hollow of his back, a strangled plea for home, and god, the sharp ice crack that broke the kid’s voice right in half. And Tony feels it imprinted like a photograph, and it dawns right and there- _how will he tell May?_

Nebula looks at him, her bionic expression not quite as fierce. “He was yours?” She doesn't ask if he was his son, or his family, just if Peter was his. And the thought makes cold flush down his spine, and acrid bile reach the roof of his mouth. He can't answer, but says, “We have a one in fourteen million shot. Earth is that shot.”

He says it so much false certainty that she listens, but the lie twists itself into knots, because he doesn't know. Tony doesn't know but he brushes on the absoluteness in the midst of uncertainty.

But he pretends, because if he doesn’t, he hears Peter in his head over and over again, and it feels like a question; _why didn't you save us?_


	2. opinions, sometimes

The Wakandan sunset paints the battleground in hues of violet, and mahoghany, and it would have been breathtaking, if it weren't for all the burials that had occured. The wind buried them- their friends, their acquaintances, their fellow warriors, ash to ash, dust to dust. _Dusted,_ everyone asks,  _who's been dusted?_ But Steve knows it's a cheap way to keep from saying the truth, because it aches, so it's easier to slap on a different word and pretend like half the world isn't gone.

Dead. Dead is what they are, not dusted. 

He remembers the hollow of his name on Bucky's lips, laced with confusion and reluctance, and he wants to scream in his pillow, because he's not allowed to out there. Out there, a seventeen year old girl is taking charge of her country, out there Natasha is struggling to keep from unraveling, out there Thor is holding steady, even though his shoulders tremble with unexpressed guilt. But he can't. Not even a trace, because he needs to hold them up, even though it's abundantly and obviously clear that there's little hope. He knows that, and they know that, but Steve lies with his mouth and his eyes and his face, even though he barely can swallow the acid of bottled tears in his throat. 

Clint calls him, a few days after, and his voice is rough, holds unabashed panic. "What the hell happened?  Tasha won't talk to me, _Laura's **gone,**_ one of my kids is _..."_   Steve can barely explain the whole situation, like a twisted up fairytale, and when he stops, Clint is silent. Steve blinks and checks he hasn't hung up, but he's still there, holding it for one moment, and the silence is tangible, solid as stone. And then for a second, he hears the shadow of a sob, and a broken,  _"Damn it,"_ before the line clicks, like a taunt. 

He lays, eyes wide open at night, because he's plagued with half broken sentences, and empty stares, and pleas for hope that he can't hear anymore. Tony is on his mind, sometimes, somewhere, out into space, Steve thinks. He doesn't hope or wonder, because that puts the possibility of Tony being gone into question, and if Tony is gone- it's easier to think of it as a truth, rather than a half baked assumption. He'd even hoped, for one soaring second, when the phone buzzed in his gloveless fingers, that he would hear his voice, maybe silently pissed, or tired, or rude, but still freaking Tony. The thought of him hums a low ache in his chest, even though they had sniped at each other constantly, jabbing, and crossing, and locking, until it broke, like millions of tiny fractures snapping all at once.

But once, behind all that sniping, there had not been fierce, hardened eyes or a blunt tone. Once, there had been something that warmed and grew, until it had withered into nothing.

He's not so sure now, Tony's still there, and it becomes easier, dangerously easier to give up and accept the finality.

And after days of lying to himself, he just _does._

He can't get out of bed, after days and days and days of forcing himself to get up and swallow the lump, ever increasing in his throat. He just lies there, and wants to pretend, and go back to sleep, because he so freaking tired of lies, wondering, pretending. It's taking a toll, and it catches him in a vice and won't let him out. Steve hears the low creak of the door, and can't muster up the spirit to whisper, "Please leave." The delicate scent of cherry blossoms, undercut with the rough earthiness of soil catches up to him, and he immediately knows who it is.

"Steve," Natasha says, and her voice is quiet- the quiet it gets when something irreversible has happened. It's also soft and comforting, which almost feels like a balm, even though Steve doesn't want to accept it, because it's only a band aid on a gaping wound.

He looks and her, but doesn't get up. "Natasha."

There's a faint dip on the bed, and her fingers are swiping against his hair, in a careful, repetitive pattern, over and over. Natasha is meticulous, even now. She doesn't let her voice break the silence, reining in whatever she wants to question, to say. He knows she sees the cracks in his facade, but she doesn't mention them, not even to him. Steve's lashes brush against the softness of the pillow, and he exhales.

"What happened?"

The hand in his hair pauses, hesitates for the slightest of a second, and Steve knows. He knows, and he wants to pretend he didn't, but he does, and it's too late to take it back.

Before he can draw the answer out, she says, short and simple. "The Wakandan technology detected an unidentified spacecraft. It might not be anything." The last part of the sentence morphs into a sweet hopefulness, but Steve knows it's just a careful way of saying they don't know _crap_ , and she knows this as well. He doesn't say anything, but sighs, weighty into the pillow, and flips his knees over the side, gets up. 

And Natasha's lips are parted, a flame of a question burning on her tongue, but she decides not to say anything and leaves. 

As the ship breaches the burning brown and orange of the Wakandan sunset, Steve watches it touch down, and for the first time, in what may be days or weeks, or maybe a million years he thinks, he lets hope trickle a river in his heart.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos and taking the time to read this story! Hopefully the characterizations aren't too off. Be on the look out for chapter three with another title that ignores capitalization!


	3. interpretation, variable

The ship touches down in an unsteady dance, skitters to an absolute stop as wood-dark dirt kicks up and paints it. Tony feels the unsteady shudder that hums through it, and a twinge of pain slips through the warm wound. He presses and hand to it, but can't look at what his fingers are painted with. Nebula stands, stock still, and without saying a word, she strides out.

The warm rush of wind almost takes him by surprise as he unsteadily makes his way out. Nebula has left him, talking to what looks like a sentient raccoon, and her voice shakes, an earthquake, even though it's as low as the rush of a waterfall. And after a while, he hears the same brokenness from the raccoon, and their shoulders shake in an unsteady harmony of shared pain.

They are all there. Hollowed against the sunset, they all stand there, and it is Rhodey that barrels into him, even though it freaking hurts, slicing him. And he's whispering, “Tony, _oh my god_ -” and Tony’s almost reminded of a desert sun and the same arms around him, and closes his eyes and sinks into his arms. The relied is delayed, and when it reveals itself, he opens his eyes past Rhodey, and sees. There's Natasha, bright blonde, her eyes reddened, with an old ferocity, and Bruce who’s shaking like an unsteady mountain, Thor, who looks nothing like Thor, all sharp edges, and hollowed out cheeks, and-

The pain hits him, hard, as the webbing sags and breaks.

But the last thing he sees, even through Rhodey’s saying, “No, damn it, _no_ , Tony,” and Bruce is yelling, “I need dressing, and an IV and a stretcher-” is a flash of bright, sky blue eyes- paled with time, but still-

-still Steve’s.

 

“He’ll be fine,” Bruce says, tired, leaning heavily against the wall, the words like a weight he needs to let go. His shoulders are hunched in, and the relief looks like it's tearing him down to the bare parts of himself. He looks up, eyes raw and tired, and _god_ -

“I think the others-” Bruce says, and sharply cuts off the sentence, which Steve doesn't know if he cares enough to call it a lie, more than a way to deny. Bruce has told them about Strange, and the kid from Queens that makes Steve’s chest ache, even through he doesn't know why.

It's only next morning when Tony awakes for the first time since landing. His eyes, amber brown, cooled by grief, blink unsteadily, drunkenly at Steve, before shifting into clear cut precision. They say nothing, Steve can't say freaking anything, the knot his stomach full of pointless apologies and hollow words. It all seems so unbelievably small now- the Accords, even through he knows it meant something to them, shattered something sacred and fragile. But, now it seems like a tiny spot in the crap fest that is the universe, missing one half of its soul.

Tony looks at him, and lips pull together in a patched together, quilted grin.

“Facial hair? Steve, seriously?”

It's stupid and unbelievably irritating, and it is not a solution or an apology. It is a simple, stupid comment about he hasn't bothered to shave because he couldn't anymore, couldn't find reason to pretend being Captain America.

But it makes Steve break down, because it's all frozen inside of him, and the comment has thawed it, a roaring river all out.

“ _Damn it_ , Tony,” he says, voice breaking, because _Stark_ is too impersonal, too clinical, and he cries like an utter child. It's only when Tony reaches over, IV and all, the beeping humming in the background that he finds space to breathe. His arms are warm, grounding around his shaking shoulders.

And Steve doesn't care or wonder about the hot tears that slip into his shirt, like a trail of fire, doesn't say anything in the quiet of their own tears. Steve doesn't mention Bucky, and Tony doesn't mention Peter, even through they both know at this point. They don't offer platitudes, or promises, because promises are too much to hope for. Because all they have left is a kingdom with a king who has gone, and a team that still needs to be fixed, and so much crap to dig through.  
  
So many plans to make. But Steve doesn't care, because Tony’s alive, and he's here, and despite all those years, hardened and tired, angry and rebellious, they are both still here. So when he breathes, sharp and jagged into the join between Tony’s shoulder and neck, and feels the calloused fingers gently tiptoe an unsteady rhythm on his back, comforting and warm, it's not a lie.

Half of the universe is gone, and eventually they'll find a plan, tear through Thanos’ defenses, but now they just hold each other, because that's what the strength left lets them do.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this fic! I appreciate you taking the time to do so! I hope your Infinity War tears have stopped, but I don't blame you if they still haven't. Cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> There's hope for them. Always.


End file.
